Mallards v KSOB, August 14 @ Riding Mill
Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven (William Wordsworth, The Prelude)
Dearest cousin Eglantine,
Forgive me, my dear. It has been over a year since my last monograph [Mallards v Benwell & Walbottle 5 June 2023].
My lack of correspondence can be explained, if not excused, by events during my recent travels around the Punjab. The damned-good thrashing handed out recently by General Frederick “Bobs” Roberts [Ed – the Second Anglo-Afghan War, 1878-1880] has meant that, as an upper-class British Victorian lady, one can now visit the wonderful country that is Afghanistan. Oh Eglantine! I had heard much of this place, but nothing that reflected its astonishing beauty. The Babur Gardens, the Buddha Niches, the Shrine of Hazrat Ali: this charming land abounds with attraction. But best of all is its abundance of top-quality skag [Ed – heroin].
I had taken lodgings with the British garrison at Peshawar, the town being the westernmost outpost of the British Raj. Tiring of fiddling with the sporrans of the 2nd Highlanders and playing with the tools of a company of Royal Engineers, I accepted an intriguing offer from a chap who, albeit dressed in the fashion of the local Pashtun tribesmen, seemed strangely familiar. He explained that he was smuggling a consignment of Mexican Mud [Ed – heroin] to Kabul and that, perhaps, my status as a member of the Victorian upper-class might provide suitable cover? Payment being in the form of free access to as much of his superb stash of Black Tar [Ed – heroin] as I might want, I agreed to join him. Brimming with vim, vigour and suitably emboldened a quick shot of Dynamite (Ed – heroin and cocaine], we set off through the Khyber Pass.
My dear Eglantine! The vista provided by those precipitous cliffs and shale-strewn river beds reminded me somewhat of my country estate at Broomhaugh! The crossing at Torkham-Ali being was not unlike the Riding Mill stepping stones, with the descent onto the Lowyah Dakkah plain being somewhat similar to the walk down Sandy Bank. How my mind wondered and mused upon my good fortune to be in Afghanistan! Perhaps it was the beguiling company of this handsome stranger? Or maybe the regular hits of China White [Ed – heroin]?
But who was this mysterious ‘Pashtun’? Being fluent in Hindi, Urdu, Pakthto and a strange dialect known as ‘bullshit’, he conversed with the locals with ease. But his English was similarly refined and, strangely, spoken with an accent of someone who was born and raised in Oxfordshire, travelled around the British Empire (India, New Zealand and Canada) and settled in Witton Gilbert, County Durham. His bearing were of an Englishman, albeit one that had spent some time in the colonies. He was not unlike an Emeritus Professor of Economics at the University of Durham who has published world-leading research on labour markets, entrepreneurship and regional economic development.
We had reached the cantonment of Landi Kotal (Ed – 3,518 feet above sea level and this highest point in the Khyber Pass] and my enigmatic escort decided that we should rest for a few days – and sell a portion of our Hell Dust [Ed – heroin]. Suitably enriched by pushing the Brown Sugar [Ed – heroin] onto the local Shinwari clansmen, my dashing dealer asked me to join him for a slap-up meal. Intrigued as I was to learn more about this exotic ‘Pashtun’, I laced up my corset, donned my finest Bertha neck-line polonaise, and joined him for dinner at the Noshejaan Restoran [Ed – Bon appetit restaurant].
My pattering ‘Pashtun’ was in fine form. The conversation ranged far and wide, from the economic rationale for the canal system in Gujarat to a critique of the radical policies of our current Prime Minister, William ‘Two-Tier Kier’ Gladstone. Imagine my surprise when, between the starter (Aushak steamed dumplings, served with a garlic yoghurt sauce) and main course (a magnificent lamb Kabuli palaw) my handsome H-hound [Ed – heroin dealer] pushed aside his plate, rose to his feet and, as he removed his Pakol [Ed – hat] and (for some reason) loosened the waist-ties on his Partug-Kamees [Ed – loose-fitting cotton trousers] began to recount the events of a cricket match between my beloved Mallards CC and KSOB CC at Riding Mill, 14 August 2024.
Well, dearest Eglantine, this set my niminy-all-apiminy, I can tell you! I am rather ‘familiar’ with the fine collection of strapping gentlemen that is Mallards CC. You might recall, for example, how my toora-loorals heaved at the sight of Mr Buckley’s athleticism and my benjo was bazoogled by the sight of Mr McCaffery’s ‘bat handle’.
But most of all, dear Eglantine, my hornswoggle was honey-fuggled by the memory of my dalliance in the bushes with my beloved some-time escort, the dashing Professor Ian ‘the Flashing Blade’ Stone [Ed – see Mallards v Benwell & Walbottle 5 June 2023 and Mallards v Riding Mill, 30 June 2021].Indeed, my mysterious dinner companion had a countenance not unlike that of by beloved blade-flasher…
Evidently, Mallards batted first. Mr Wilson (R) and the ever-honourable Mr Liaquat made an admirable start, putting on 15 before Mr Wilson (R) was bowled by Willett. “He played down the wrong line, my dear” recalled my dapper Doowab, a graceful swing of his by now throbbing blade [Ed – probably a cricket bat that he had with him] demonstrating how Mr Wilson (R) might have added to his score of 2.
Mallards were 26-2 from 5.2 overs when Mr Liaquat, described by my Khushamaw king as “a fine cricketer, a gentleman and [Ed – allegedly] my go-to solicitor when the Peelers [Ed – British Police] rumble my stash”, returned to the pavilion, having played across a straight one from Willett.
Mr Nyenhuis came in at a Jonathan Trott-esque number three and crafted a fine 22, which included several magnificent fours, before he was obliged to cross the veldt-like outfield (caught: Boyce, bowled: Menton). My magnificent Molungee reported that Mr Nyenhuis’s batting was “as refined as his Rhodesian accent, which reminded me somewhat of my role in the Relief of Mafeking [Ed – May, 1900]. I’d spent 217 days under siege, providing strategic guidance to Colonel Baden-Powell. Well, that and making sure that everyone was well supplied with Brown Beast [Ed – heroin]”.
Mr Buckley was next in and next out, making 4 before snicking one to the ‘keeper (Wiles) off a ball from the ever-accurate Black. “The nick was suggestive of the sound made by my Martini-Henry rifle at the Battle of Omdurman [Ed – The Sudan, 1898]. Them fuzzy-wuzzies [Ed – Beja warriors] don’t like it up ‘em, I can tell you…”
Mallards’s 47-4 (9.4 overs) became 55-5 (11.1 overs) when the magnificent Mr Hamid was stumped by Wiles after chasing a wide one from Black, his balletic 7 including a superb 4 through the covers. My stylish Subhadar recounted that the velocity of this shot was “only marginally less than the muzzle velocity of Mr Maxim’s new-fangled gun” [Ed – 744 metres per second].
Mr Cox came in and promptly went out for 0, tickling one to Wiles off Menton. Demonstrating his deep understanding of international law, my rakish Rajepoot suggested that “Mr Cox was clearly troubled by the de jure status of the Colony of New Zealand. The Treaty of Waitangi clearly states [Ed – section 4, paragraph 3.2] that those Kiwi chaps should be governed as part of the Colony of New South Wales. But they insist on self-government and letting their sheep run around all over the place. My, how they continue get their jandals in an awful collie-shangle about their kawanatanga” [Ed – Maori for government].
Next in was Mr Wilson (A). A series of fours, punctuated by some admirably ambitious wafts helped Mr Wilson (A) to build a superb 26. I am, perhaps, of somewhat advanced years to “entertain” the youthful Mr Wilson (A) but, my dear Eglantine, my articulate Aumildar’s account of this fine young chap set my lollygag-a-flutter! “The way he slammed one four through mid-wicket was not unlike the salvo I ordered to be fired at the Battle of Chandannagar [Ed –a river in West Bengal]. Had the Nawab of Bengal have built one his forts on the boundary, it would surely have been demolished by Mr Wilson’s (A) fine shot!”
Someone who, entirely coincidentally, shares the name of my beloved Professor ‘Flashing Blade’ joined Mr Wilson (A). Injudicious calling meant that the serendipitously-named ‘Mr Stone’ was run out without facing a ball. My dear Eglantine, do you know this chap, Mr Stone? I wonder if his blade [Ed – his bat. Probably] throbs in the same way as that wielded by my dear Professor?
Anyhow, Mallards were by now 86-8 (17.2 overs) when Mr Wilson (A), having now been joined by the redoubtable Mr Holland (S). “Mr Wilson (A) had clearly had word that Mr Kent (Ed – sometime Mallard and often-time landlord of the clubhouse bar] was serving ‘under the counter’ El Diablos [Ed – heroin, cocaine and marijuana] in the bar. Still, what a fine innings!” exclaimed my fanciful Foujdar.
Mr Holland (S) had built a skilful 8 before falling (bowled) to Anderson. Mr Cleaver strode to the middle and more or less strode straight back to the pavilion, a ball from Anderson not so much keeping low as subterraneously making its way into off-stump. “Rather like the tunnel between the Legislative Assembly and the Red Fort in Delhi” remarked my ravishing Rajah. “I must remember to retrieve the 20kg of Dragon Snow [Ed – heroin] that I’ve stashed there”.
Mallards were all out for 95 (18.5 overs), Mr Watson being stranded having made a valuable 1 and the ever-reliable Mr Extras contributing a well-crafted 10.
The story recounted by my beguiling Brinjarrie had, by now, had a peculiar effect on my giddy-mug. Thrilled, rather overcome by the romance of the setting [Ed -a restaurant in Landi Kotal, 3,518 feet above sea level and the highest point in the Khyber Pass, in case you’d forgotten] and somewhat intoxicated by a couple of sniffs of Neon Nod [Ed – heroin] before the dessert (a superb Gosh-e Fil, with a side-serving of toasted Haft Mewa) was presented, I found myself drifting into a state of satisfying psychedelic delirium.
Time seemed to somehow slow down and yet simultaneously speed up [Ed – a convenient way for the author to bring the report to a timely conclusion]. I drifted in and out of consciousness, but can recall that my magical Moolavy reported that Mr Cleaver and Mr Watson opened the bowling for Mallards. Moir and Menton batted well for KSOB, the former ultimately retiring after making a rapid 33. Mr Nyenhuis bowled the latter for 12 and then accounted for Weston (bowled for 9). The scorebook is somewhat silent on the fall of wickets, the scorers, no doubt, having partaken of Mr Kent’s El Diablos.
“By now” said my delightful Dewanny “It was as dark as the seat of Mr William ‘Two-Tier Keir’ Gladstone’s underpants” [Ed – allegedly] and KSOB were making steady progress. Mr Cox, Mr Latif, Mr Hamid and the happenstancely-monikered Mr Stone joined the bowling fray. Some impressive guile, tight deliveries and dynamic fielding, notably by Mr Wilson (A) and Mr Cox, offered Mallards a degree of hope.
In a brief moment of lucidity, I recall my personable ‘Pashtun’ telling me that Mr Nyenhuis bowled Peffer to leave KSOB on 63-3 after something-or-other overs and that Mr Latif subsequently accounted (bowled) for Menton to make KSOB 65-4. Sadly for my cherished Mallards, a 26 not out by Roe and the contribution by Moir eased KSOB to their target with a couple-or-three overs to spare.
Well my dear Eglantine, the combination of the beauty of Afghanistan, my excitement at hearing of my cherished Mallards and the entrancing patter of this ‘Pashtun’ potrepreneur [Ed – drug-dealer] – or was it? – had all become too much. Well, that and the copious amount of Heaven Dust [Ed – tiresomely, heroin] that I had taken since we began our journey through the Khyber Pass. I lapsed into an opioid-induced coma, waking only to hear mention of a “presentation, “farewell speeches” and “time for another beer”, a mysterious character known as ‘The Despot’ and a legendary onanist referred to as ‘Mr Thomas Browne’.
But most of all, my dreams were frequented by thoughts of my beloved Professor Ian ‘The Flashing Blade’ Stone. What had become of him since our last ‘meeting’ in the bushes at the Jon Robb end? Why did my mysterious dinner companion remind me of him so much? And why was this patterning ‘Pashtun’ now waving his tumescent ‘blade’ [Ed – his bat. Probably] while intoning me to “Hitch up those crinolines and get those bubbies out!”
Who knows, my dear cousin? But until my next communique, and until my next ‘encounter’ with my dear Professor, farewell!
Yours bemusedly,
Florence Leglance (Ms)